Love Finds You in Frost, Minnesota
Love Finds You in Frost, Minnesota
ISBN-10: 0-8249-3435-0
ISBN-13: 978-0-8249-3435-4
Published by Summerside Press, an imprint of Guideposts
16 East 34th Street
New York, New York 10016
SummersidePress.com
Guideposts.org
Summerside Press™ is an inspirational publisher offering fresh, irresistible books to uplift the heart and engage the mind.
Copyright © 2013 by Judy K. Baer. All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
Distributed by Ideals Publications, a Guideposts company
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Guideposts, Ideals, and Summerside Press are registered trademarks of Guideposts.
The town depicted in this book is a real place, but all names are fictional except that of Charles S. Frost (May 31, 1856−December 11,1931), the architect after whom Frost is named. Any resemblances to any people living or dead are purely accidental.
Scripture references are from the following sources: The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. The Holy Bible, English Standard Version® (ESV), copyright © 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission.
Cover and interior design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group, Mullerhaus.net
Printed and bound in the United States of America
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Contents
• • • • • • • • • • • •
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
About the Author
Dedication
• • • • • • • • • • • •
For Josie, Keillor, and Quentin—Merry Christmas
Acknowledgments
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Kudos to the real Frost, Minnesota, for being such a tidy and charming small town!
THE TINY TOWN OF FROST IS SITUATED IN SOUTHERN Minnesota. With fewer than 200 residents, it has a post office, library, several agricultural businesses, and three Lutheran churches. Frost was named for Charles S. Frost (1856–1931), an architect from Chicago who designed The Depot in Minneapolis/St. Paul, Chicago’s Navy Pier, the Navy Pier Terminal Building, and numerous other landmarks.
The town of Frost was platted in 1888, and the post office began operation in 1899. The majority of the settlers were Norwegian, and the town’s residents still enjoy Scandinavian traditions such as church lutefisk dinners at Christmastime. Though Frost is very real and lovely, the places and characters portrayed in this book are not. Still, I fell in love with the place during my visit, and I like to imagine all the wonderful people who must live there.
—Judy Baer
Chapter One
• • • • • • • • • • • •
Merry Blake straightened the gold angel at the top of the Christmas tree and stood back to inspect it. She had the same curly blonde fluff of hair as the angel staring benevolently down at her, the same green eyes, and the same perpetually happy expression, as if Christmas joy were etched into her soul.
Twigs Merry had collected and sprayed gold glinted from between the branches of the fourteen-foot white pine adorned with metallic gold bows, balls, and ornaments. This was her finest yet, she decided, which said a lot, considering that she’d decorated more than a hundred and fifty trees in the past five years. Yes indeed, Merry’s Christmas Boutique was looking better than ever.
She checked on the fragrant spiced cider in the electric urn near the spiral staircase to see that it was warm. Her part-time helper would head for it first thing when she arrived. Abby Phillips was almost as crazy about Christmas—and cider—as Merry.
The door opened and a cascade of chimes exploded, the motion-activated reindeer began to play “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” and a raucous movement-sensitive Santa chortled “Ho, ho, ho.”
Upon hearing the auditory explosion, Merry turned to greet Abby. She was startled to see not her friend but a tall, broad-shouldered, elegantly dressed man with thick dark hair, brown eyes, and a frown that etched deep furrows in his high, intelligent forehead. He appeared to be a few years older than she, thirty-five to her twenty-eight, perhaps. Snow lay sprinkled across the shoulders of his black wool coat, and a gust of icy wind followed him inside. She shivered a bit in her Mrs. Claus red velvet skirt and fur-trimmed blouse.
“Welcome to Frost. May I help you?” Strangers didn’t often come through the streets of Frost, a tiny town in southern Minnesota inhabited by a large percentage of people with Norwegian and German heritages—except now, of course, at Christmastime, when her boutique drew people from as far away as Minneapolis, St. Paul, and even Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
“What is this?” The question was far from friendly, but the fellow’s scowling demeanor didn’t conceal his handsome features. His coat fell open to reveal black trousers and a cashmere V-neck sweater with a pristine white shirt beneath.
“This is Merry’s Christmas Boutique. Frost’s one and only Christmas store. We open on Black Friday and close January seventh, right after our clearance sale.” Merry smoothed her skirt and hoped she didn’t have straw from the Nativity sets in her hair. “Are you looking for a special Christmas gift? Stocking stuffers?”
He stared at her as if the synapses in her brain were made of peppermint bark. Disapproval oozed from every attractive pore. “Stocking stuffers? What kind of nonsense is that?”
“Nonsense? Don’t you like Christmas?” If not, what was he doing here in Frost, the town that had fully embraced Merry’s marketing concept and turned itself into a tiny Christmas village for almost two months every year?
“Has this place gone completely nuts?” Icicles dripped from his words.
“Candied pecans, perhaps,” she said through gritted teeth, determined not to allow him to fill the shop with his negativity. “They’re one of my best sellers. Would you like to try some?”
He ignored her. “Frost is nothing like the last time I was here at Christmas. Now there are Santas on every corner, reindeer and sleighs perched on every rooftop, and a weird talking Christmas tree by the post office that doesn’t shut up! The only thing that makes any sense is the life-sized Nativity at the church.”
“That’s my favorite too, but people think of Santas, reindeer, and elves at this time of year as well.” She snapped her fingers. “That reminds me—did you see elves as you drove through town? Abby’s husband, Charley Phillips, was
supposed to put them up—hanging out of the trees, peeking from behind rocks, and the like. It’s very clever, and the children love them.”
His scowl deepened, and he looked as if he could use a little sugar boost.
Merry hurried to get him a cup of cider. She thrust it into his hand, and he stared at it suspiciously.
“It’s not poison, for goodness’ sake! Drink it. You look as though your blood sugar is dropping.”
“Who are you?” he asked, after a gulp of cider. “Where did you come from? The North Pole?”
Merry beamed at him, pleased with the suggestion. “I’m Merry Blake. I’ve lived in Frost for five years. I teach morning kindergarten in Blue Earth and work afternoons and evenings here, at least through the holidays. I substitute teach the rest of the time.”
He continued to gape at her as if she’d just arrived on the Polar Express, so she continued. “I’ve always loved Christmas, so when I had a chance to buy this place—for little or nothing, I might add—I grabbed it. It’s the perfect Christmas house. Every year I turn it into a boutique. I also do high teas and luncheons for groups of ladies and act as an occasional bed-and-breakfast for people who come to town to visit. I had no idea the store would take off like this. Now I earn more in two months than I do teaching. I’d never quit that, however. I love little kids.”
She saw his eyes glazing and bit her lip. She was so happy with how things had turned out that it was hard for her not to talk about it. Teaching children, a lovely home, and the opportunity to dwell on Christmas all year long and to seek out people to enjoy it with—what could be better? Because she was an only child of only children, big family Christmases were the stuff of magazine covers and store windows until she began to make her own.
Christmas had always been a lonely time for her. No siblings or cousins for whom to purchase gifts, no aunts or uncles to prepare for, and certainly no great anticipation about the presents under the tree. Her parents were practical people who gave her things like socks, school clothes, and money. Despite their pragmatic approach to life, she missed them terribly. When they’d died unexpectedly in a car accident, her only family left was a great-aunt. She pushed away the thought of the one thing that would make Christmas perfect—family, people to call her own.
Though she could never replace her parents, she had a lot of good friends, both male and female. There were an especially large number of male friends who’d like to be invited to her house for Christmas, but for some of them that was almost equivalent to a marriage proposal—and she was in no hurry to rush into a permanent institution with any of them. Already she’d decided to invite her lonely neighbor Hildy over for the holidays.
Only when nights got long and she ached to talk to someone other than her red-and-white border collie, Peppermint, and the butterscotch-colored cat she’d named Eggnog did she feel an emptiness in her life. She had specific, unbending requirements for a mate. Whomever she married would have to love Christmas as much as she. That was nonnegotiable. And, naturally, he would be a Christian.
She hummed as she took the cup from her visitor’s hand, refilled it, and handed it back to him. She picked up a plate of cookies. “Something to eat? Spritz cookies, pecan tartlets, and macaroons. There are also caramel peanut clusters, peppermint bark, birds’ nests, and divinity. My mother taught me how to make the divinity. It’s tricky, you know. I don’t like it when it’s soft and melts into those puddles. . . .” Merry hesitated when he didn’t respond. She was doing it again—rambling on about Christmas.
Her guest held up his hand as if to stop her. “What are you doing here?”
Merry studied him. He looked fine—more than fine, actually—but he was certainly behaving oddly.
“I told you. I live here.” She spoke slowly, as if to a misbehaving child. “This is my home. This is my store.”
“In Frost?”
The least he could do was look around and see the lovely selection of Christmas items on display, she thought impatiently. “Of course in Frost!” She narrowed her green eyes and set the pretty bow of her mouth in a moue. “Perhaps I should ask what you are doing here.” She hoped Abby would arrive soon. She was beginning to be uncomfortable with his odd behavior.
“I own Frost.”
Merry felt her eyes widen.
He saw her reaction and amended his statement. “I don’t own all of it, of course, just a lot of it.”
“What is your name?” Merry clutched the cell phone in her pocket, ready to dial for help.
“My name is Jonathan Frost. My great-grandfather was a cousin of the man after whom this town was named, Charles S. Frost, an architect from Chicago. Apparently he came to see the place that carried his family name, liked it, and settled here. I’m named after my great-grandfather, Jonathan, but my . . . someone in my family called me Jack, and it stuck.”
Jack Frost had just walked into her store? This was too good to be true!
Merry hardly registered the part about the town’s founder. Jack Frost was here in Frost! She could have an autograph party and get him to sign the framed prints of the photos of morning hoarfrost on the windows that she’d taken last winter. Wouldn’t that be fun? She could serve White Christmas, her favorite coconut cake, and . . .
Wait a minute. Had he just said he owned the town of Frost?
“How could that be?” Merry couldn’t keep the skepticism out of her voice. “You own this town?”
“Bits and pieces, apparently. And a lot of land outside of town. My father passed away recently, and it wasn’t until the reading of his will that I discovered that Dad had inherited the property in Frost. It’s been in the family for four generations.”
Merry tried to digest this bit of information.
“Dad rarely mentioned his great-grandfather, who was gone long before I was born.” The young Mr. Frost tugged absently at his ear. “I assume that when the property came to Dad, whoever was taking care of things concerning Frost was dead and gone.”
Merry thought of the way she pulled together her own income piecemeal. If Mr. Frost’s family could overlook profits and returns like that, they must be very well to do.
Mr. Frost had the grace to look a bit sheepish. “Our family has always had plenty of money. I’m sure it wasn’t a big deal to him.”
Merry edged her way to the dining room table, set with Spode Christmas china, red napkins, poinsettias, and green placemats. Red-and-white peppermints graced the tabletop, and large teddy bears sat in three of the chairs as if waiting for lunch.
She gestured for Jack to sit down, got more cider for both of them, and put the cookies on the table between them. “So this was all news to you? I thought you said you’d been to Frost before.”
“It was a long time ago. One of my grandfather’s sisters actually lived in this very house.”
“And now it’s mine.”
“Obviously.” His expression grew distant, as if he were in another place and time. “When we visited, I used to crawl through the little door in my aunt’s closet that leads to the attic. There were old toys up there, clothes, hats, even a dressmaker’s dummy and a civil war uniform. It was rather magical for a little kid.”
“It’s all still there,” Merry said softly. “I didn’t have the heart to get rid of it. It felt as though I’d be taking the heart out of the house if I disposed of those things.”
He looked surprised, a pleasant change from the perpetual frown he’d been wearing.
“You can look through the attic if you want.”
The offer obviously startled him. “It’s yours now.”
“It belongs to the house. You’re part of the house’s history. It’s okay with me.”
She saw his posture soften, then stiffen again, as if he’d been tempted by her offer and then changed his mind. He drummed his fingers on the peppermint-themed tabletop.
“Thank you, but I think there are more important things to do while I’m here, like sort out the mess my father left me.”
&nbs
p; “How long do you plan to be here?”
“As long as it takes.”
“To do what?”
“To interview the people who worked the property, to see exactly how much of this town and the land around it I actually own. And, if I’m lucky, to get this ridiculous bogus Christmas spectacle pruned down to size. I hate the gimmicky thing the holiday has become.” Then he seemed to realize what he’d said and how it must have sounded to Merry.
She felt as though she might have to pick up her jaw off the plate in front of her.
Jack Frost wanted to shut down Christmas!
* * * * *
He might as well have landed in Oz or Alice’s Wonderland, Jack thought. Apparently the eccentric nature of this entire trip was just beginning. He’d thought it bad enough when he stopped at the county courthouse and discovered that nothing was as clear-cut about the property he’d inherited as he hoped it would be. And now this.
The little town he recalled from his childhood had been turned into a Christmas cash cow, and it turned his stomach. He had little tolerance for any Christmas celebrations other than church, and this was beyond garish. It reminded him of New York when the giant tree was lit in Rockefeller Center, and the skaters looked like toys gliding on a mirror.
She was staring at him, he realized, with something that bordered on alarm. He could hardly blame her. Christmas and its memories always had this effect on him. But enough about that. He shook himself free of his thoughts. He needed to get back to Blue Earth.
“I’d better go,” he said awkwardly. “Thanks . . .”
He backed out the door, closed it softly to prevent the musical riot from starting again, and escaped to the refuge of his rented BMW.
Against his better judgment, Jack took the turn that led him to the center of town.
Elves were everywhere, peeking over stumps, out of trees, and from behind snow banks.
He hoped he woke up from this nightmare soon.
Chapter Two